


on the edge of the devil's backbone

by light_loves_the_dark



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - The Starks Live, Arya is a boss, But It's Petyr And Sansa So What Are You Expecting, But Really This Is Pretty Fluffy, Darkish Sansa, F/M, Gen, Humor, Manipulation, meet the parents au, mention of rape, there is angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-11
Updated: 2017-07-08
Packaged: 2018-10-17 12:14:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 18,018
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10593810
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/light_loves_the_dark/pseuds/light_loves_the_dark
Summary: Situation: Arya Stark has dropped out of uni and is now fighting underground for money. Jon Stark was dishonorably discharged from the Night’s Watch a year ago, and now works in a coffee shop. Sansa Stark has recently gotten engaged to the CFO of her abusive ex-boyfriend’s multinational finance company, six months after the boy was brutally murdered under mysterious circumstances.Problem: Robb Stark is getting married, so all the Starks must fly home. It is easy to obscure the truth from a distance, but Ned Stark comes from a family of police chiefs, and his wife is capable of the most convoluted interrogations the world has ever seen.Solution: Arya, Jon, and Sansa have made a pact: work together to tell the truth (to lie their asses off).





	1. I

**Author's Note:**

> why did I write this? I don't know. 
> 
> This is light and humorous but it also deals with heavy issues - my idea of the problems Petyr and Sansa would have if they could ever maintain a relationship. It was getting too long so I've separated it into three parts. Petyr/Sansa doesn't really hit until the third part, but I promise it's worth it. 
> 
> title from the civil wars.

_five days before_

 

“You’re going to have to take that off.”

Sansa Stark tightens her grip on the steering wheel and studies her left hand. Her nails are well-groomed, cuticles clean, and a far too ostentatious diamond ring sparkles on her fourth finger.

“He’s not going to be happy,” she sighs, but she slips it off anyways and tucks it carefully into her purse, keeping her eyes on the road.

Arya snorts. “It’s just a ring; he’ll get over it.”

Her sister rolls her eyes. “There’s very little he ever ‘gets over’, Arya, and you know that.” Arya opens her mouth to respond when Sansa’s ringtone echoes through the car’s Bluetooth. The girls share a look at the name on the display, and Sansa reaches forward to accept the call.

“It’s like he’s fucking psychic,” Arya mumbles.

“What was that?”

Sansa can’t help the smile that spreads across her face when she hears the smooth voice fill up the car. “Nothing, just, were your ears burning?”

The voice chuckles. “No, sweetling. Though I must admit I was thinking about you too. The office is so quiet without you down the hall.” There is a deep sigh from the other line, and his voice goes low. “Why, there’s so few people here today, I think if I locked the door we might be able to-” 

“Ew, gross Petyr!” Arya shouts, covering her ears. “Younger sister in the car!”

Petyr is silent for a moment, and Sansa tries to hold in her laughter. “I didn’t know you were picking up Arya, my dear,” he says finally, sounding clearly sullen.

Sansa smiles at her sister who looks surprisingly scarred; she would’ve thought Arya would be used to Petyr’s marginally creepy flirting at this point. “Well, we figured we’d save gas this way. You know, help the planet?”

“Oh, how altruistic of you.”

“Hm? Oh no, my daily moment of altruism will come later tonight, when I call you to say goodnight.”

Arya looks at her in horror, and she relishes how she can practically hear Petyr lean closer to the phone, even from miles away. “Oh?” He clarifies, and she grins.

“Mm hm,” she confirms, and Petyr groans.

“I don’t understand why you have to be gone a full week,” he grumbles. “A wedding only lasts a couple of hours, Sansa, I could’ve had you flown up there and back in a matter of hours.”

Sansa leans back in her seat; she misses him too, even though neither of them will admit it outright. “Yeah? And that wouldn’t look suspicious, me flying in last minute in a private plane? This week is about _not_ provoking my parents.”

“I don’t give a fuck what Ned and Catelyn Stark think,” Petyr bites out in response. He must be more desperate for her than she thought.  

“Yeah? Well _I do._ ” Sansa exhales, fighting the urge to both punch and kiss him, and upset she could act on neither impulse. Not with him thousands of miles away. “You agreed to this, Petyr,” she adds, knowing her tone will show him that she’s serious. “It’s not the right time.”

“I don’t think it counts as an agreement if I was coerced,” he shoots back, but the anger has faded and he sounds more amused than anything. Sansa feels the tension bleed from her body. “Speaking of our _agreement_ , I’ve taken _very_ good care of your little gift. Even Tyrion Lannister complimented me yesterday on my new, silk pocket square. I wonder what he would say if he knew it was really your-”

“ _Okay_ , bye Petyr!” Arya interrupts, lunging forward to end the call.

Sansa had turned bright red at this point, but she is still indignant. “Hey!”

Arya just stares at her. “Your fiancé is a lecherous creep.”

Sansa smirks at her sister, thinking about the man to whom she’s planning on binding herself. Petyr Baelish has no boundaries, very few morals, and does not care about anyone in world but himself. _And me_ , she tells herself, but even the voice in her mind sounds shaky. But she knows what he wants, and he knows what she wants. The same thread of ambition runs through them both. She hopes that will be enough. “Lecherous? Did you buy a thesaurus recently?” Sansa teases, eager to get off the subject of her questionable taste in men.

“Ugh, shut up,” Arya retorts, but she is smiling. “Sansa…” she begins seriously, and the redhead glances over at the change of tone, “how are we going to pull this off?”

Sansa tilts her head, giving her younger sister a determined look before turning back to the road. “We stick to the plan,” she says, moving to fiddle with the radio. The rest of the drive is silent.

 

-

 

_twenty-six days before_

Sansa hurries inside the small coffee shop, unwinding the long woolen scarf from around her neck. She spots a mop of dark curls at a table near the back, smiling as her brother turns to wave her over. Just behind him, her sister is typing away on her phone. After waving back, she orders a cappuccino from the pretty, redheaded barista before weaving around the mess of tables toward her coffee dates.

Despite the fact they had lived in the same house for sixteen years, Sansa and Jon had never been close. Nor had she spent a lot of time with Arya, as their personalities and interests were wildly different, but they at least had a mother in common. Since living in the city, though, and especially since her break up with Joffrey, Arya had stuck close. They had learned to strike a precarious balance: Sansa coerces her sister into shopping trips, and she allows Arya to take her to the range to teach her to shoot. Something that had made her fiancé very happy. 

Jon is different. Even when he moved to King’s Landing, they had never tried to see each other. Sansa runs in the circles at the top of the city, working for and making deals with the major players in order to win a game of which she still does not know the scale. Jon, on the other hand, left that world behind in order to live a normal life, a decision Sansa would never understand. But then again, she had always been the most ambitious member of her family.

She slides into the last empty seat in the corner, holding her bag in her lap. “Jon, Arya,” she greets fondly, nodding at them both. Arya hardly looks up from her phone. “I only have an hour left on my break, and I have to make it all the way back across the city, so if we could-”

Arya scoffs. “Yeah, we know, you have a job in the shiniest building of the Red Keep, far from the rest of us plebeians. Give it a rest, Sansa. Neither of us wants to be here more than you.”

Sansa glares at her sister, opening her mouth to respond, when Jon interjects. “Hey, okay, I know this is going to be tense, but we agreed this was the best way to deal with what’s about to happen, right? Face to face.” He quiets when the redheaded barista brings Sansa’s coffee over; the girl shoots him a conspiratorial grin when she thinks no one is looking.

When she leaves, Sansa leans over to Jon. They might not get along, but the sight of her half-brother blushing is an opportunity she cannot pass up. “What was that?” she questions, and that finally gets Arya to put her phone down. “Flavor of the week?”

Arya spins around to catch a glimpse of the retreating barista and laughs. “Get it, Jonny Boy!” she crows, punching her brother in the arm. The girl turns around at the noise, winking when she catches Sansa’s eye. Jon turns even redder, and then the whole table is laughing.

The laughter clears the air around the siblings, and Sansa takes the chance to bring up the reason they are all here. “You all got the invitation for the wedding,” she says, her voice low.

Jon nods. “Yeah, Robb’s marrying that ER nurse,” he replies, and Sansa is a little surprised at the bitterness that seeps through his tone. “No surprise there.”

Sansa shares a glance with Arya, but neither comment on it. Jon’s rapport with Robb, Sansa knows, is an entire can of worms by itself. “Mom and Dad can’t know about… my relationship,” she says carefully, fingers wrapping tightly around her coffee mug as she avoids looking down at her engagement ring. “And we all know that they won’t believe me if I tell them I’m not interested in anyone, or worse, they’ll try to set me up with someone _again_ , so we need to get our stories straight.”

“They can’t know I got discharged,” Jon says quietly. “I’ll figure out a way to tell Dad later, but not now.”

Arya slumps back in her chair. “Yeah, I’m definitely not telling them I dropped out.”

Sansa rolls her eyes. “Well at least I don’t have to clean up your bloody face anymore. What made you stop fighting, anyways?”

Jon leans forward, eyes wide. “ _Fighting_? What the hell, Arya?”

“It’s over; don’t worry about it,” Arya nearly shouts at both her siblings, swiping her phone on and off in a nervous gesture. “I have a legit job now.”

Jon narrows his eyes. “Yeah, no, you and I are having a long talk later.”

Sansa exhales. “Arya’s craziness aside, that’s a lot of baggage we have to plan for.”

Arya snickers. “Yeah, Jon got discharged, I dropped out, and you’re engaged to a creepy middle-aged pimp. One of these things is not like the other,” she says in a sing-song voice, and Jon nearly falls out of his chair for the second time.

“What the fuck? _Sansa_!”

Sansa glances at her watch before picking up her phone, telling her secretary to cover for her if Cersei or Petyr come calling. This is going to take longer than she had planned.

 

-

 

_four days before_

“Things are… good, right? Work? Your neighbors are nice?”

Sansa slips by her father to pull a mug out of the cabinet. “Yeah, dad, things are good.”

Out of the many members of the Stark family, only Ned and Sansa rise with the sun regardless of the occasion. Robb, Jon, and her mother enjoy sleeping in when possible, the younger boys are still of the age where sleeping until midmorning is normal, and it would be a miracle to get Arya up before noon most days.

Arya and she had gotten in too late last night to do more than sleepily hug the family and climb into bed, and Jon’s flight had luckily been delayed so that he had not arrived until three in the morning. Sansa counts this as a blessing; it’s pretty obvious that he is the worst liar of the three of them. Not to mention the most honorable, and likely to spill everyone’s secrets out of guilt. Better to let Sansa and Arya paint a picture that he only has to emulate.

She pours a healthy amount of coffee into her mug, relaxing into the normality of it. When Ned swings around to hand her the cream, she smiles in thanks, adding just a dash.

Her father chuckles. “You used to empty the carton, you know.”

Sansa grins. “Well, I’ve changed a lot over the past two years,” she teases.

His smile fades a little. “Hopefully not too much, honey,” he says, kissing her gently on the forehead.

_If only you knew,_ she thinks, keeping her eyes away from his. “I’ll always be your daughter, dad,” she reassures him. She had never been particularly close with her father, not like Arya and Jon, but their morning ritual had got her through some rough days in high school. Petyr, she knows, will ruin that comfort, if not her relationship with her father in its entirety.

They are interrupted by a yawning Robb who enters the kitchen not unlike a zombie. When Sansa presses a cup of coffee in his hands, he drinks it down with one gulp.

“Your brother got in late last night,” Ned says, changing the subject to something less emotional now that someone else has arrived in the kitchen. Her father had never excelled in expressing himself in groups. “Do you know why he flew in from King’s Landing? I’m sure the Wall had a direct flight-”

“Oh, that one’s on me,” Sansa lies easily. “Jon and I don’t get to spend a lot of time together, so I asked him to stay with me for a couple of days when he got early leave. It just gets so… crazy around here, sometimes, and Arya and I wanted to steal some time for ourselves.”

Ned frowns. “Why didn’t he just drive with you?”

Apparently, the interrogation never ends. “He booked his flights before Arya and I decided to arrive. Truthfully,” she leans in conspiratorially, “I wanted to see if we could set him up with a nice girl. He works so hard, you know; he deserves a little happiness.”

Ned’s eyes cloud over a little, and he hunches forward. “Of course,” he says, and Robb takes the silence as a cue to start talking about the wedding.

Nodding along to her brother’s words, Sansa pulls out her phone. Ignoring a missed text from Petyr for a moment, she opens the group chat entitled “the barista, the fighter, and the gold digger”. She rolls her eyes; she never should have let Arya name it.

_Ten points to me! Dad now feels guilty about being hard on Jon._

Knowing her siblings won’t wake up for at least a few more hours, she switches to Petyr’s message: _What are you wearing?_

Sansa sighs, catching herself before she rolls her eyes again. Robb would definitely ask her what’s going on, and there is no way on planet earth that she is showing him this message. _Desperate, much?_ She texts back.

Even though it has been at least half an hour since he texted her, his response is almost immediate. _For you? Always._

Sansa puts her phone down, ignoring the flash of heat that travels up her spine at his words. She tries to focus on Robb’s words.

This is going to be a long week.

 

-

 

_three days before_

“Sansa, your mobile is ringing!”

“Who is Everyone’s Favorite Creepy Pimp?” Rickon asks, his tone innocent as he picks it off the coffee table. 

“Arya!” Sansa snaps, rushing past her giggling sister and lifting the phone from her youngest brother’s hands. Arya is still laughing when her sister sprints by her and up the stairs, slamming her bedroom door shut behind her. She can hear Sansa’s voice, low and irritated, through the thin wood, but she cannot make out the words.

Arya has always been confused by the relationship between her sister and Petyr Baelish. More often than not, the conversations she overhears are either about business and the game, as Baelish calls it, or they are the worst kind of depraved. The former Arya doesn’t want to get involved with, and the latter makes her wish that she could wash her ears out with soap. Surely it is impossible sustain a relationship with ambition and sex, even if it’s, supposedly, really good sex.

Arya shudders.

Yet, sometimes, she remembers the look on Baelish’s face when Joffrey put Sansa in the hospital. He had looked ready to kill, and sure enough, the boy was dead within the week. And she cannot argue with Sansa’s more frequent smiles, even if they are accompanied with sighs of exasperation. All the way back in that hospital waiting room, she had resolved that if Sansa was somehow happy, she would be happy for her.

Arya is pulled from her thoughts by her mother, who walks past her into kitchen with an armful of groceries.

“I could use some help, Arya,” Catelyn says pointedly, and she rushes to the car to unload the rest.

They are in the middle of putting away the food when Catelyn speaks again. “Can I ask you a question, dear?”

“Sure, Mom.”

Catelyn pauses for a moment, then: “does Sansa have a boyfriend?”

Arya freezes for a moment, then relaxes. For this one, she doesn’t have to lie. “No,” she answers honestly. After all, Baelish is not her sister’s boyfriend anymore. She doubts that word could ever have really been applied to Littlefinger. It seems too juvenile.

Catelyn hums. “It’s just… she’s been very distracted this week.”

Leaning on the counter, Arya reaches to put the cereal on the top shelf. “Yeah, well, she has a pretty big deal job now. I think it’s just hard to leave it behind for a week. Plus, she told me there’s a position opening up. She might be in line for a promotion.”

“Oh, really?”

“Yeah.” Arya grins when her mother’s back is turned. She should get extra points for that one. It might not even be a lie; Baelish could be plotting to kill Sansa’s boss at that very moment. She snickers at her own thought; her sense of humor had always run a little morbid.

Jon and Robb come tumbling into the kitchen, both reaching for the new case of beers in the refrigerator. “Yeah, Sansa told me about that too,” the younger says conversationally, trying to back up his sister’s story but completely missing the odd look his brother sends him.

“She told you before me?” Robb says skeptically. Arya tenses; everyone knows Robb and Sansa are close. Of course it would raise red flags.

“I just didn’t want to take anything away from your big day!” Sansa sweeps into the kitchen, phone still pressed to her ear. She takes a bottle of water from the still open refrigerator, and leans up to kiss Robb on the cheek. “It’s no big deal; I was going to tell everyone after the wedding.” 

Robb smiles down at her, suspicion forgotten, and Arya wonders when sweet little Sansa had become the best liar out of them all. _Littlefinger should hold a workshop on it,_ she snarks to herself. “Who are you talking to?” Robb asks, and Arya watches to see how Sansa answers this one.

“Co-worker,” she says simply. “We have a big project due next week.” Arya might as well be able to _hear_ Petyr laugh over the line. Sansa spins out of the kitchen and back up the stairs. 

Unfortunately, her fun is ruined in a matter of seconds. “So tell me more about your classes,” her father says, and Arya sighs.

“Well, business management is even worse than it sounds…”


	2. II

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> wow is this long - thanks everyone for the great comments on the last chapter; I hope you enjoy this one as well! 
> 
> just fyi - I have no idea how underground fighting works, so I'm sorry if I completely messed up the details-
> 
> also s/o to outerds because she doesn't like modern aus so if she made it to this chapter it's because she loves me <3

_fifty-four days before_

Arya waits impatiently at the bar, eyes scanning for the client that her bosses had demanded she meet. The man is expected to contribute a lot to the fights, or so they tell her. Arya runs her fingertips over the knife she keeps in her pocket just in case they send someone for a different purpose.

Just as she is pulling out her phone to confirm the details, someone slides into the booth opposite her. She looks up, then sighs.

“Baelish.”

Petyr Baelish smirks back at her, dressed in a sharp charcoal grey suit. It matches the grey in his hair, she thinks viciously.  “Miss Stark,” he greets, leaning forward.

Arya rolls her eyes. “Just because you’re dating my sister, doesn’t mean I want to see you,” she tells him. “Plus I’m supposed to be meeting a client, so fuck off, will you?”

Littlefinger dramatically puts a hand to his heart, but she only scoffs. “Oh, that hurts, Miss Stark. Tell me, would you allow me to say my piece if I told you that I am your client?”

Arya just stares at him. “You actually are, aren’t you,” she says flatly. He smirks at her. “Well, I’m out then,” she continues, moving to slide out of the booth.

“I want to offer you a job.”

Arya stops, swinging back to look at him. “Did you tell your girlfriend that you’re trying to recruit her sister for your brothel?” She has never heard a worse offer in her life.

Petyr almost grins, but his eyes are still cold. They always are, she notes, unless he’s looking at Sansa. “Do you think I have a death wish? No, I’m afraid I have another idea in mind.”

Arya crosses her arms. “I don’t want to work in the mob, Baelish.”

“I have no dealings in the mob, my dear.” Petyr is looking at her as if she is something delightfully innocent, as if he is trying not to laugh, and it makes her see red.

“I’m not stupid, _Littlefinger_ ,” she hisses. His expression does not change. “Just get to the point.”

Despite her best efforts, his smirk does not fade. “Listen, Miss Stark. Your fights are getting harder. Your injuries are getting worse. You have someone tailing you wherever you go.” She opens her mouth to disagree, but he only shakes his head. “You can lie to your sister, but you can’t lie to me. You need an out, and I’m offering. You won’t get a better deal.”

She narrows her eyes at him. Though she is in loathe to admit it, he is right. She has no debts left to pay, and she’s getting better. She’s winning, and she does not want for cash. The bosses find a way to make people like her disappear. But if she knows anything about Petyr Baelish, it is that his help comes with a price. “And what do you get out of it? I’m not doing you any _favors_ ,” she says. The word tastes sour in her mouth.

“No, my dear, I wouldn’t dream of it. Surely you know I am completely devoted to your sister,” he says smoothly, and though there is a spark of mischief in his eye she knows that it is the truth. Baelish might as well follow Sansa around like a salivating dog. It’s gross.

“You better be,” she warns, but the threat is empty. She can’t touch him. Though, she thinks, if Sansa ever gets hurt, she would find a way.

He leers for a moment, but then his eyes harden. “Of course, I can’t make the decision for you.” He drums his fingers lightly on the table, and Arya subconsciously leans back. She would define herself as somewhat fearless, but something about Baelish scares the shit out of her. She calls it self-preservation. “But, you must understand, I am associating with your sister, which means I must keep an eye on all the members of the Stark family, especially those who live in King’s Landing, and especially those that could potentially be… a _liability._ ” He pauses, eyes unblinkingly on hers, and for the first time she feels like it is Littlefinger who is addressing her. “For Sansa’s sake, I will of course offer help, but if one were to refuse my help, I would understandably have to take my own action.” 

Arya watches him warily. She needs to quit the fights, and she supposes she can go to Sansa if dealing with Baelish goes awry. She is relatively certain that she can always muscle her way out of his offer if needed. “What’s the job, then?”

Petyr’s eyes flash with something like triumph, and she shivers. He outlines what will be expected of her, and she feels relief at hearing his offer because in her limited understanding it could not be further from his sketchy business practices. When he asks her not to tell Sansa that he has a hand in her new lifestyle, she can only nod in surprise. Petyr seems to her the type to enjoy taking credit for his actions.

He pays for her lunch and is out the door before another word can pass between them, two burly men peeling themselves from the shadows to follow him. Arya takes a deep breath; she has always been tough, but Petyr is iron. She hopes that Sansa knows what she’s doing.

She suspects, proudly, that her sister is steel.

-

_one day before_

When Robb and Arya announce they are starting a game of football, nearly the whole family runs outside. Sansa hangs back, hoping to catch a quiet hour alone. She is finally settling down onto the porch chaise with the new Malcolm Gladwell book when Jon collapses on the rug at her feet.

“Mom would kill me if I sat on the couch without taking a shower first,” he says when she looks down at him. In spite of his words, he leans his arm, which is damp with sweat, on the white cushions.

Sansa nods at the door leading to the backyard. “I would’ve thought you’d be all over that; you know you’re supposed to be balancing out the fact that Robb played in school,” she teases, laying the book down on her lap.

Jon smiles. “I’m pretty sure Arya can take him,” he says. There is silence for a moment while Sansa waits for her brother gather the courage to say what is on his mind. “Dad told me he was proud of me last night,” he says, almost whispering. “He said that I’m a hard worker, and a good man.”

Sansa puts a hand over his, smiling sadly. “You are,” she tells him, hoping he can hear how earnest she is. “You are both of those things.”

Jon scoffs, but he doesn’t take his hand out from under hers. “I don’t deserve his pride, Sansa.”

She looks at him sharply. “You do, Jon. You have a steady job, you’re saving to go back to technical school, and I know for a fact Ygritte is happy.” She grins when his head jerks up. “Yeah, she told me that she finally got tired of waiting and asked _you_ out.”

Jon turns red at the thought of his girlfriend, though she knows he’ll never admit it.

“But seriously, Jon, just because you’re not doing what Dad sees as an honorable career doesn’t mean it isn’t worth being proud of.” She pauses, weighing the costs and benefits of what she is about to say, then lowers her voice. “Listen, you know as well as I do how corrupt the military is right now.”

Jon stares at her, shocked and curious. “How do you know-”

“It’s not important,” she interrupts. “But I know, whatever order you disobeyed, you probably were trying to do the right thing.” Jon opens his mouth to speak. “No, I know you can’t talk about it, and I know you probably won’t ever tell us what happened that night, but it doesn’t change the fact that I know what kind of person you are. Dad should be proud. I know I am.”

Jon closes his mouth for a moment, thinking. When he opens it again, the moment has passed, and Sansa breathes a sigh of relief. Petyr would not be happy if Jon started digging. “Thank you,” he says quietly.

Sansa squeezes his hand. “No problem.”

“It doesn’t change the fact I feel guilty,” Jon reminds her.

Sansa runs a hand over her face. “Two more days, Jon. We can make it that long.”

Jon laughs. “Well, hopefully we don’t get a repeat of last night.”

Sansa giggles along with him. Arya had revealed way too much knowledge about the art of throwing knives when her father had found his brother’s old set in the attic. Sansa and she had to make up a story on the spot about a new elective the university offered. Sansa had stressed how important it is to learn to protect oneself in the city, and though Catelyn had thrown Arya several odd looks, nothing more was said. When the three of them had retired for the night, they had laughed their asses off about it in Sansa’s bedroom.

“I don’t know why they never ask you about more than your job. You can actually tell the truth about that. It doesn’t seem fair,” Jon complains, but from the way his eyes crinkle he means it in jest.

Sansa shrugs. She certainly lies about her lunch breaks, but she doesn’t think her parents would enjoy hearing about the inventive ways she has learned to keep quiet when Petyr has her for lunch in his office, Tyrion Lannister just next door. Sometimes, when she sees the man in the hallway, he turns red, and she wonders if he suspects something after all. Petyr tells her Tyrion is not a threat, that he only wants to get out of the typical Lannister lifestyle, but she has her doubts.

“Guess I’m just the perfect, innocent child in their eyes,” she says instead, teasing.

Jon narrows his eyes. “You better be,” he jokes, but there is uncertainty in his eyes. He knows the truth about Petyr to an extent, but so far he has respected her boundaries. She suspects that would change if he knew all the dealings that her fiancé has a hand in. “Maybe you’re just lucky,” he offers.

Sansa smiles. “Maybe.”

Jon turns serious. “It’s all going to come out eventually; you know that, right?”

Sansa exhales. She’s not ready. She’s not sure if she will ever be.

“I know.”

-

A couple of hours later, everyone is corralled into the car for the wedding rehearsal. Sansa has been chosen as Talisa’s maid of honor; as far as she knows, the young woman does not have any family, so Sansa feels honored. Unfortunately, Robb had thought it would be a wonderful idea to choose Theon Greyjoy as his best man, probably to make the foster kid that had lived with them for a couple of years feel more like family. To be fair, her eldest brother is probably unaware of the fact that Theon’s favorite activity when he is around Sansa is to leer at her and make vague insinuations about how hot she is.

So when he moves to take her arm once she has walked down the aisle of the Sept ahead of Talisa, she tries not to shudder. She makes eye contact with an old friend of hers, Jeyne Poole, who is also part of the wedding procession. The girl shoots her a sympathetic look from Jon’s side. Sansa can’t help but send a small smile back; she hasn’t spoken more than a few words to the girl in years, but maybe that look means that Jeyne has finally gotten over her misplaced, youthful crush on Theon. Sansa feels a guilty for forgetting about her high school friend, and mentally notes to catch up with her before she leaves for King’s Landing.

Just then, Theon’s hand on her back drops too far down for the sixth time that morning, and Sansa shifts to move away from his touch. They have been at this for two hours already, and she is relieved when they break for lunch. The relief fades into disgust when she realizes that the seats are organized according to the procession pairings, which means she is again sitting next to Theon. When Sansa makes eye contact with her sister, who sits across from them and next to Bran, her sister giggles.

Most of the group stays and spends the afternoon setting up, but Catelyn Stark spends it throwing various boys from Winterfell and the surrounding area at Sansa, who knows her brief peace of her perceived single status has faded. She glares at a smirking Jon from across the room, who surely must have cursed her yesterday when he said that she had yet to face the consequences of her lies. She definitely feels like she has faced them now.

She is finally able to escape in the form of a phone call, ducking into a side room to answer. “Petyr,” she greets, and she does not think to hide the relief in her voice.

There is a brief pause on the other line. “Sweetling,” he says finally, his voice almost soft. “How are you?”

Sansa realizes how she must have sounded, breathless and maybe too happy to hear from him. “I’m fine,” she says, “you just got me out of some heavy lifting; they’re carrying the benches outside for the reception.” It’s not a lie, exactly, she figures. At the moment, Ned and Robb are doing that very thing.

Petyr chuckles. “Sounds domestic.”  
  
“You have no idea,” she scoffs. “Why did you call?”

“Maybe I just wanted to hear my wonderful fiancé’s voice, and tell her how lovely she looks today.”

Sansa can’t help but laugh. “You can’t even see me.”

“No,” he says mock-seriously, “but I am sure you look lovely.”

Sansa looks down at her grey tank top and old jeans. Her hair, she knows, is a mess, and she forwent makeup this morning. “I’m going to be nice and let you keep whatever image you have in your mind,” she jokes.

“Oh,” he says darkly, and Sansa shivers. “Don’t worry, I will.”

“Okay, Baelish, keep it in your pants,” she says, trying to inject lightness into her tone.

He audibly exhales. “If that is what you desire,” he tells her, and she is relieved to note that his tone matches hers, though there is a mock gallantry to it. “I have some news to share with you, and a question as to how you wish to proceed.”

Though he cannot see her, Sansa nods, sitting down and pulling out her notepad. “I’m putting you on speaker so I can write.”

“No one can hear you?”

She wants to laugh at his paranoia, but she knows it is justified. “I’m in a sept in Winterfell. No one cares.”

“Fair enough,” he chuckles.

They work in tandem for about twenty minutes before Sansa hears footsteps coming down the hall. She tells Petyr to wait, watching the door. Luckily, it is Arya who bursts forth.

“So this is where you came to escape,” she announces, glancing at Sansa’s phone. “I see you didn’t change my new nickname for him,” she says to her sister, who grins at her. Arya’s idea had been quite fitting, and it makes Sansa giggle when he calls her. “Hey, Baelish.”

“Nickname?” Petyr questions, and Sansa shakes her head frantically at her younger sibling who almost doubles over laughing. When he hears muffled laughter over the line, he abandons the topic in favor of another that Sansa had hoped he would not pick up on. “What are you escaping from, dearest?”

Sansa’s grin fades, but Arya answers anyway. “Oh, Mom thinks poor Sansa over here has been single for too long, and that throwing all the simple, really fit boys of the North at her might change something.”

“Oh?” Petyr says simply, tightly, but Arya doesn’t notice. Sansa reaches for her sister, eyes wide, but Arya only dances out of her reach, smiling cheekily.

“Oh yes,” Arya confirms. “Theon wouldn’t keep his disgusting, thirsty hands off her ass,” she continues, still laughing. “And how many times did he - quote on quote - _subtly_ proposition you today? Sucks that you’re going to have to go through it all again-”

Sansa finally manages to slap a hand over her sister’s mouth. “Petyr?” She questions, cursing the tremble in her voice. “Petyr, Arya’s just joking, Theon’s nothing to worry-”

She is interrupted by a quiet beep from her phone. She leans over to check it.

The line has gone dead.

“What the fuck was that?” Arya asks. “I thought Petyr could take a joke.” She even sounds a little apologetic, which Sansa would appreciate in any other situation.

Sansa puts her phone and her notebook in her purse. “It’s fine,” she says, more to herself than to Arya. “I’ll just give him a little time to cool off, and call him back.”

Arya watches her sister carefully; Sansa sees the apprehension rise in her eyes. “What? Sansa, just tell me what’s going on.”

On her last straw, Sansa spins back to face her sister, eyes only a little short of panicked. “That man has killed people for hurting me, and ruined men’s lives for less,” she says in a quiet rush. Her voice is low, but it sounds loud in her ears. “And _you_ just told him that someone has been touching me inappropriately all day, and will continue to do so tomorrow.”

“You know, I should’ve known your fiancé would be weird and possessive,” she says, contemplative. Then, as if the words just hit her a little late, her eyes go wide. “And I taunted him about… Oh shit.”

Sansa nods grimly. “It’s fine,” she repeats, trying to reassure Arya, but rings empty and false. “I’ll deal with it when I get back. He’ll get over it.”

She turns to leave the room, remembering what she had told her sister as they drove up to Winterfell when she had been in loathe to remove her ring.

There’s very little her fiancé ever gets over.

_-_

_the day of the wedding: sansa_

The actual ceremony goes surprisingly smoothly, though Sansa struggles to keep Theon’s wandering hands from slipping to her ass when he is supposed to keep them around her waist. Robb looks happier than he’s ever been, and Sansa is relieved that the attention was kept on him and Talisa this week. As it should be. In three hours, everyone will leave; Arya and she will be able to climb into the car and not think about their family until Christmas. Maybe by then, she will have figured out what to do about her fiancé.

 _By that time, he might be your husband,_ she reminds herself. The thought sends a dual shiver of excitement and apprehension up her spine.

They are getting ready to move to the reception, and Sansa slips out of the sept to text Petyr for the fourth time that day. He has not responded to any of them, and the silence is killing her. Petyr constantly texts her, emails her, calls her. At times, it is annoying, but she would rather be annoyed right now than worried. Surely Ros or Olyvar would contact her if something was wrong.

_Is everything okay? I know I said this already, but I’m sorry about last night._

_It’s really not as bad as Arya made it sound._

She hears a car pull up the driveway, but doesn’t look away from her phone. She figures that it is the van service her brother hired to take everyone to the reception. Instead, she sends one last text, hoping the admittance she is about to make does not make her look weak.

_Petyr, please. I’m getting worried._

“That’s sweet, really.”

Sansa starts, nearly dropping her phone. Her eyes dart to the familiar grey-green ones of the man standing in front of her, and she cannot help her audible gasp of surprise. 

“Petyr,” she breathes. Then, remembering where they are, she looks around before dragging him behind the left side of the building. “What the hell are you doing here?”

He chuckles, but she doesn’t like the calculating arch of his brow. There is something very wrong. “What, no kiss? It’s been nearly a week, sweetling, I’ve missed you.”

Sansa eyes him, her voice hard. “I told you not to come here.” She is still gripping his arm, because for some reason unknown to the gods she had missed touching him too. _Weak._ “Why are you here?”

Petyr’s voice is smooth, but his eyes tell a different story. “Why, I thought you needed a knight in shining armor.” He says the last words like a mocking curse, and Sansa’s face burns at the reference to her childhood dreams. He already knows everything else about her; why not what she used to dream of as well?

“You _, noble_? That’s ridiculous,” she laughs scornfully.

He studies her closely. “I know I am not,” he tells her, “but sweetling, I am not sure you do.”

Before she can contemplate his meaning, he twists his arm out of her hold, and instead takes her hands in his. His grasp is too tight to be affectionate, and she tries to still the tremor in her fingers. Slowly, his eyes leave hers, flickering down to her left hand, conspicuously bare. His posture visibly tenses, and her heart drops to her stomach.

“Why didn’t you tell me about him?” He asks, his voice low, and she shudders, pulling her hand from his. 

“Because it’s not a big deal,” she tells him, rolling her eyes. Her fiancé has always had a possessive streak the length of the North Wall, but it usually only comes out when weird, really stupid (honestly, she’s _Littlefinger’s_ , are they crazy?) strangers hit on her. She doesn’t really care what happens to them, but Theon is a childhood friend. He might be a creep, but he would never actually hurt her. “It’s just annoying. And surprise, I didn’t want someone to be gunned down at my brother’s wedding!”

He goes quiet for a minute, then: “you should know I’d have more respect for you than that.” He smirks. “I’d at least wait until the reception.”

Sansa scoffs in disgust. “So this is a joke to you, then?”

He takes a step toward her, eyes hardening. “Does it look like I’m _laughing_ , Sansa?” He is so close that they are breathing the same air. “Listen, sweetling,” he begins, and she can’t help it. Her eyes dart down to his mouth. When she pulls her eyes back up to his, they have darkened. “Listen – _fuck.”_

Sansa never figures out what she’s supposed to be listening to, because Petyr leans up to take her lips with his. Their height difference is even more accentuated with her in heels, but there is no question that he controls this embrace. She loops her arms around his shoulders, and his hands find their usual haunts: one digging in the small of her back and the other gripping her hair. He kisses her hard, harder than usual, pressing her body so close to his that it feels as though he is trying to pull her into him. As if he can undo the seams that keep her together, and unweave his own, making them one. Petyr, she realizes, despite his possessiveness and ambition and infuriating apathy, is still the only man with whom she would want to be joined.

That thought makes her pull away, and though he lets her, he keeps her close to him. “You don’t trust me,” she says finally, meeting his eyes. This time he is the first to look away. “We are engaged, Petyr, and you don’t trust me when I say I can handle something.”

He sighs, pressing his forehead to hers. She lets him, watching his eyes close at the contact. “Quid pro quo, my dear,” he says mildly, but she can sense the undercurrent of emotion all the same. For the first time, he seems like glass. Like something she could break.

Her breath hitches. “Maybe… Petyr, maybe this isn’t…” She trails off, sliding a hand around his neck so she is able to skim her fingers through the dark hair at the base of his skull. He opens his eyes as she lowers hers. When she gathers the courage, she meets his gaze. “Maybe we shouldn’t-”

He is looking at her sharply. “ _Sansa_ -”

They are interrupted by heavy footsteps, but they don’t have the time to pull apart. Thankfully, it is Jon who rounds the corner, but his eyes widen in horror at the sight of them. Sansa is almost offended, but the words that leave his mouth make her reconsider quickly.

“Mom and Dad,” he gasps, “they’re right behind-”

He does not have to go any further. Sansa steps away from her fiancé as quickly as she can, running her fingers through her mussed hair. She can see Petyr eye the distance to his car, but he discards the idea as quickly as it comes. She wonders briefly if he planned it this way. In any case, it is too late to run; they’ll have to talk their way out of this.

Fortunately, talking is their specialty.

Sansa watches as Petyr’s mask slides into place. For the first time in years, she realizes, he is about to see her mother. She focuses on his eyes; that is where the emotion will shine through, whether he likes it or not. At least for her, she thinks, as her entire family comes around the church. “Did you find her?” her father calls, stuttering to a stop when he sees Petyr. “ _Littlefinger?”_

Her mother comes into view, but when Petyr looks her over, it is merely a cursory glance. His eyes twitch instead to Sansa, searching for approval. She rolls her eyes, but her heart swells a little all the same.

Catelyn’s jaw drops at the same time that Arya skids to a stop next to Jon, and from her face she is fighting the urge to simultaneously laugh and bang her head against the wall. Sansa has never related to her sister more. “Petyr,” her mother asks, her voice shrill, “what are you doing here?”

As if he didn’t hear what she just said, Ned stops staring at the unexpected guest and turns to his wife: “Did _you_ invite him?”

Catelyn looks aghast. “No!” A pause. _“Petyr?”_

Petyr pays no attention to them, his eyes still on her. His hands are spread out in a calming gesture, and Sansa is pulled back into the moment. She had been about to call off their engagement, and he knows it. And if there is anything of which she is absolutely certain, it’s that their relationship is a part of his plans on which he is unwilling to compromise. “Sansa, please...”

Her father straightens, finally noticing that he is not part of the conversation, but his baby girl is. “Now, listen here, Baelish, I don’t know why you’re here, but if you’d step away from my daughter…”

Petyr tenses. _Fuck,_ Sansa thinks, restraining herself from dropping her head in her hands.

Petyr’s eyes are cold as he lazily assesses her father; he takes a single step forward to put her within arm’s reach. He slides a hand around her back and reaches into her purse with his other. Sansa closes her eyes, knowing the exact words that are about to leave his mouth. “Considering she’s my _fiancé_ , Stark,” he begins, pulling out her ring and taking her left hand in his, sliding it on her finger. On any other man it might be romantic, him laying his claim on her, but the ice in his expression says otherwise. She doesn’t even want to know how he knew where she had kept the ring. Sansa shivers, watching a mocking grin spread across his face. His words hang in the air as her fiancé relishes the weight of his admission before he continues: “I don’t think I will.”

There is quiet for a brief moment, where Ned’s eyes flicker back and forth between Sansa and Petyr, attempting to find his footing. “Sansa?” He questions weakly. Everyone else stays quiet, looking straight at her, except Catelyn, who watches Petyr with narrowed eyes.

She chances a glance at her fiancé, who looks straight back at her with no remorse, smug and expectant. She wishes she could slap him, but she also doesn’t want her father take it as permission to kill him, regardless of the fact he clearly deserves it. She reluctantly nods. “It’s true, Dad. We didn’t mean for any of this to happen-” here she sends Petyr a warning look, daring him to say otherwise “- but it did. I’m sorry.” 

Despite her attempts to defuse the situation, she can pinpoint the exact moment that her father’s vision goes red. He lunges forward, and after a pleading look from Sansa, Jon jumps to hold him back. Ned’s entire face is the color of a tomato. “That’s my _little girl,_ Baelish,” he snarls, fighting off his son. Sansa grabs Petyr’s wrist, hoping he will _take a hint_ for once and keep quiet. She looks to Robb, hoping that her eldest brother will be on her side.

“I’m with Dad on this one, Sans,” Robb says, taking a few threatening steps forward. “Do you even know who this is? What do you even know about him, really?”

“I know more than you!” Sansa retorts, holding tight to Petyr’s wrist. She takes a slight step in front of him, and he twists her grip so that he is holding her hand. He is either doing it to support her or to antagonize her father, and honestly as long as he keeps his hold tight then she doesn’t really care why.

“ _Let her go, Littlefinger,_ ” Ned says, straining towards them; Jon is barely able to keep him back. Robb steps closer, and Catelyn does nothing to stop any of her family. Bran, Rickon, and Talisa can only watch in horrified interest as the show plays out in front of them.

-

_the day of the wedding: arya_

 

Arya should have known that they couldn’t pull this off. But even she couldn’t have predicted everything going to shit this badly.

Sansa is looking desperately at her, hands clasped with a man who probably regularly murders people. Arya has seen a lot of the world, and despite what her generally bright upbringing in the North taught her, most of it sucks. Petyr will help her sister get what she wants, but he in no way deserves her. If Arya was the same girl she had been even a year ago, she would be rolling up her sleeves to help Robb beat his ass. But she is not that girl anymore. She knows Sansa will not stop being ambitious any more than Arya will go back to being the girl who grew up play-fighting among her brothers, who still thought the most dangerous weapon was the one pointed at your face.

In truth, the most dangerous weapon is the one Sansa undoubtedly feels every day: the one pressed against your back. She might as well make sure her sister has the best protection possible.

It helps that she gets to watch her parents freak out over it all. After all, Arya, in her heart, is a rebel.

Sansa looks seconds away from actually mouthing ‘help me’, so Arya sends her a wink. “I dropped out of school!” She yells over her father’s shouts, regretting her decision a little when all eyes turn to her. Even Ned quiets and stops struggling against Jon. “I, um, I fought people for money… for a while?”

“Arya!” Catelyn shouts, aghast.

“I don’t do that anymore though,” she finishes with a sheepish expression. She watches Sansa visibly relax, and Baelish _, thank the gods_ , remains silent.

“How did this even-” her mother begins.

Jon doesn’t even let her finish. “And I was discharged from the Night’s Watch,” he interrupts, cringing when the attention turns to him. “Last year. So I lied. A bit. I’m, ah, sorry?”

Ned pulls away from his son. “I don’t know what in the name of the gods,” he begins slowly, “is going on here, but I’ll deal with you two later.” He points at Jon and Arya before turning back to Sansa. “Now _you_ , young lady-”

Arya watches in shock as her picture perfect sister cuts off their father, shaking her head. “No, Father.”

Her mother nearly chokes. “Sansa Stark, your father-”

But Sansa stops her too. “ _No._ And you know what? I’m not even going to explain myself, because all of you have already drawn your own conclusions. Yes, he’s older than me. Yes, he works for the Lannisters. Yes, he owns nightclubs and whores and he has definitely-” Sansa cuts herself off, and Arya wonders what she had been about to admit. “The point is,” she continues, “he’s my choice. And I don’t depend on any of you for anything, not money, not a job, definitely not fucking emotional support, as no one wants to even _talk_ about what happened to me last year, and not anything else, so none of you have any right to make that choice for me.” Arya scans her family; most of them are gaping at the eldest Stark daughter in disbelief. Jon shrugs when they make eye contact, and she has a sudden, strange urge to laugh. Or give Sansa a high-five.

Instead she steps forward until she is close enough to her sister, who now that she is closer she notices is shaking, to whisper. “You guys should get out of here before they realize what just happened,” she says. Ned is already trying to form words.

“Yeah,” Sansa says, taking a second to wrap an arm around her sister in a rare sign of affection. “Thanks, Arya.” She looks like she means it, too, giving Arya a tense smile.

“You’re going to desert your family for a man you barely know?” Catelyn interjects, though she is still only staring at Petyr. It is as if she has never seen him before.

Sansa looks over at her fiancé before spinning to address her mother. “I know what you did to him, and I know what he did to you.” She eyes Petyr for a moment, apologetic, before continuing. “And I know what you let Aunt Lysa do to him,” she accuses, ignoring her mother’s small gasp in favor of the feeling of Petyr’s hand tightening in hers. “Whatever he’s done, Petyr isn’t the one making me choose between you and him: you are.”

That she would choose Littlefinger over her family goes unspoken, but it is there nonetheless. If Arya listens closely, she can hear the tremble in her sister’s voice, and she wonders if that had been Sansa’s first lie of the night. “When you want to talk about this civilly, you can call me.” She pauses, adding hesitantly, “Congratulations, Robb, Talisa. I love you all.”

“This isn’t you, Sansa,” Catelyn says quietly, but with an expected undercurrent of steel. “You don’t know what he is, or what you’re talking about. We got you out of that life for a reason; don’t turn your back on your family for nothing.”

Arya looks at her mother sharply. If she had known about King’s Landing, about Littlefinger, then she had to have known about the Lannisters. Why had she let Sansa get engaged to Joffrey? She buries her questions for later, but she guesses it will not only be Jon and her that will be forced to come clean tonight.

Sansa stiffens at their mother’s words, but does not respond. She tugs on Baelish’s hand, which she has not let go of once. “Let’s go, Petyr.”

Petyr follows her sister obediently, eyeing her with a strange combination of ire and lust, and the last thing Arya wants to think about is the possibility that he has actually gotten off on the last twenty minutes. But she wouldn’t be surprised.

What she watches instead is Sansa, and the way she brushes off the arm her fiancé brings around her as they walk. She wonders if Jon and she had just defended a relationship on its last strings.

“What _in the hell_ was that?” Robb says, staring after the couple in disbelief, breaking the tense silence that has surrounded them. Talisa stands wordlessly behind him, and Arya feels a tug of remorse for ruining their reception. At least the wedding had gone off without a hitch.

Ned glares at the car that houses his daughter as it pulls away. “I don’t know, but it’s about to end,” he bites out, striding towards his own car. Catelyn stays silent, obviously scheming, but knowing the battle between Sansa and her family must wait for another day. Ned has no such patience, but Arya is glad that at least she doesn’t have to block both of her determined parents.

“No, dad,” she says, racing forward to wrap her hand around her father’s wrist. “You have to let them go.”

“And why should I? That’s _Petyr Baelish_ your sister is with; you have no idea who he is and what he’s capable of.”

Arya wonders if this is how exasperated Sansa feels all the time. “He’s a good man, dad,” she retorts without thinking.  

Ned just stares at his daughter. Even Jon raises an eyebrow. Arya sighs. “Okay, yeah, you’re all right: he’s a really shitty person. But listen, he got me to stop fighting, and set me up with a legit job.” She stops and lets that sink in, watching her father’s eyes widen. “He got Sansa out of a really bad relationship that none of us even noticed, and helped me support her afterwards when all of you were too afraid to face the facts.” That makes the whole lot of them cringe. Joffrey had been an asshole, and all of them had known it, but none of them had bothered looking close enough to see the extent of the abuse. She wonders if they might be still unaware. “And,” Arya continues, “he’s fucking ruthless, if you haven’t noticed. I’m pretty sure that shithead isn’t around because of _him_.”

There is a long silence, and it is Robb who breaks it. “If he’s as bad as all that, why should we let Sansa marry him?” Arya sees couple of nods from the rest of the group, and she can’t help but feel a little disgusted.

“Sansa’s twenty; she’s an adult, and no one here is going to _let_ her do anything.” With no tactics left, she turns to appeal to the matriarch of the family. “Mom… she’s changed. She wants things that the North can’t give her, that _we_ can’t give her. Baelish isn’t my favorite person in the world, but I think he loves her, and he’ll do anything for someone he loves.” She thinks back to what Sansa had told her of the history between Catelyn and Petyr. “ _You,_ of all people, should know that.” Her mother sighs, and Arya pounces on the weakness. “Let Sansa go. If he hurts her, I’ll kill him, and you can all get in line behind me.” With that, she makes for the door, but not before she hits them with one last thought. “Oh, and don’t tell Sansa that he helped me. He asked me _not_ to.”

Arya steps back around to the front of the building, ignoring the loud conversation that breaks out behind her. She exhales, wishing it could be later in the day and therefore socially acceptable to start drinking.

Then she shrugs, turning for the car instead. She knows that she saw a bar on the way into town, and since when has Arya Stark given a shit what people think?

Plus, she’s going to have to be black-out drunk to be able to comfort her sister if she comes home tonight with a broken heart.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> come yell at me on tumblr @queeenpersephone


	3. III

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> s/o to dethronejane for getting me going! i really appreciate it, love :) 
> 
> time for an extremely lengthy convo between the babes. they have too many issues for me to write lol. but first, a flashback!

 

_ninety-six days before_

Sansa arrives at the restaurant ten minutes before their reservation time; she has always been notoriously punctual, but Petyr is always even earlier than her. She barely has to make eye contact with the hostess before a waiter cuts through the throng of people waiting to be seated to lead her directly to her table. She follows him, ignoring the irritated grumbles around her. Sometimes, the perks of being in a relationship with Petyr Baelish are easily apparent.

She knows to be on her guard; Petyr has made reservations at her favorite sushi restaurant. He detests the cuisine, though he will never admit to it. _Never let them know any truths about you, sweetling, not even ones that you deem arbitrary. Serve them course after course of smooth lies, and eventually they will choke._ Their usual table is in the far back corner, extremely private and cozy. Despite her punctuality, Petyr is of course already present, lazily perusing the wine list. His eyes flick up when he hears her approach, standing and kissing her on the cheek once she is within arm’s reach. “My love,” he greets, eyes sparkling, but there is an anxious tone to his voice that he cannot hide.

Sansa is immediately worried. If something had gone wrong, why did he make a dinner reservation at her favorite restaurant to tell her? It can’t be too damning, or else they would both be dead. “Petyr?” She asks, sitting. He follows suit, ever the ostensible gentleman. “Is everything alright?”

 _“Is everything going according to plan?”_ She doesn’t ask. She knows that is what he hears.  

He merely nods before changing the subject to the wine list. They choose a red together despite the fish they plan on eating, as Sansa detests whites – a product of her upbringing – before settling into light conversation.

They make it two courses only talking about their respective days before Sansa can’t take it any longer.  

“Okay, tell me what’s going on,” she says abruptly, glaring at her dinner partner.

“Whatever do you mean?” He replies innocently, eyes wide. Sansa narrows hers in turn. “I thought the conversation was flowing just fine.” She nearly scoffs; he had just been describing the process of filing the company’s taxes. She always appreciates learning from him, but that is taking it a little too far.

“When are you going to tell me what’s wrong, Petyr?” She retorts sharply. He is throwing her off-kilter, which is far too normal for her liking, but this particular kind of uneasiness is uncommon.

Instead of speaking, he reaches under the table and into his briefcase. He pulls out a single manila folder, making a show of flipping through it as if to make sure everything is in order before pushing it across the table. She drops her fork and moves her salad to the side so she can open it, spreading the contents out on the table. Petyr watches her carefully.

She holds up the first paper. “Is this a bank account summary?” She questions, eyes widening at the amount of zeros following the numbers at the bottom of the sheet.

“Mine,” he clarifies. “I want you to know I can provide for you.” He leans back against the back of his chair in a display of ease and relaxation, but she can see his fingers clenching around the edge of the table.

She looks at him curiously. “I never doubted it,” she says awkwardly, unable to come up with a better response. She places the sheet to the side; of course he’s rich, she tells herself. It is definitely more than she expected, but he gives her an expensive gift at least once a week and has six cars in his garage. She has always known that.

He looks a little impatient, so she picks up the next one, finding that it is stapled together with several others. There is a thicker package in the middle; it is filled with a passport, a driver’s license, and credit cards. They all have her photo on them, but not her name. “Those are for you to keep, no matter what happens,” he says softly, gazing at her as she looks at the forgeries in shock. These are good. _Really_ good. “It’s a dangerous game we play, sweetling. You must always have a way out.” He nods at the documents. “I will never give that identity up, Sansa. Not for anything. And if you don’t believe me, we’ll have them remade. Nevertheless, if something happens to me, I need you to be on the next flight out of here. I will guarantee your safety, I promise.”

Sansa is speechless and not a little doubtful. The idea that Petyr would ever put someone before himself, even her, is laughable. He wants something from her; she is sure of it. “Petyr, what is all this?”

He smirks at her. “Shh, sweetling,” he tells her, his voice as soft and smooth as the wine they are drinking. “You must get through the rest.”

The next document she recognizes immediately. “This is a death certificate… for Ramsay Bolton.” Her knuckles turn white as she grips the paper. “Petyr…” she warns, voice shaking. For the first time since he gave her the folder, her blue eyes meet his grey-green ones straight on. He looks a strange mixture of arrogant and hungry.

“He touched you,” her lover says simply. “That cannot stand.”

“Petyr-” she tries again.

“ _Listen_ , sweetling. I will not hurt you, not ever.” He has taken both her hands in his, prying her grip from the certificate. Though her mind is racing, she cannot look away. “Your enemies, _our_ enemies, will burn. All of them. I will give you whatever you desire: money, power, knowledge, revenge, anything. Name it, and it is yours.”

 _Can you give me love?_ She wants to ask. _Can you give me what my parents have?_ Instead, what comes out of her mouth is this: “and for what? What is your price?” She’s pretty sure she knows, but she asks all the same.

Petyr releases one of her hands and reaches into his suit pocket, pulling out a small box. He flicks it open with his thumb, and holds it out to her. 

 _Oh._ Sansa’s heart stops.

“Marry me.”

The diamond is huge, bigger than Cersei’s, she notes absently. She tears her eyes from it to the papers scattered in front of her. He has offered her all of his resources. He killed her rapist. His hand grips hers tighter, pulling her gaze back to his.

She studies him, ignoring the fact that she is still having trouble breathing. He looks at her with honesty, but he is good enough that it could be a lie. Desperate for control, she pulls his phone from the left hand corner of his side of the table and the hits the home button, entering his passcode. He watches as she pulls up the internet and types _Ramsay Bolton_ into the search engine. It loads quickly, and she immediately scrolls down. The words ‘dead’ and ‘suicide’ and ‘troubled past’ flood her vision, and she slides the phone back, overwhelmed.

_He’s telling the truth._

When Joffrey had decided that he was done with her, he had given her to Ramsey Bolton. She had spent hours in that basement before Tyrion had smuggled her out. To this day she had no idea who took her to the hospital, but when she woke up, Arya was holding her hand, and Petyr was pacing the room. She had only been sleeping with him for less than a month, but when she convinced Arya to leave the room for the coffee that she so obviously needed, Petyr had asked her what she wanted. Thinking of the abuse that she had suffered under the Lannisters and the Boltons, the threats that they had made against her family, she could only ask for one thing: Joffrey’s death. In return for intelligence on the Lannisters, Petyr had given it to her easily.

Sometimes, she remembers the deadly look in his eye and wonders, if she had just told him to take her home, whether he would have killed the boy for her anyways. Now, looking at the proof of Ramsey’s death, she thinks that she knows the answer.

“Sweetling?” Petyr asks, concerned. She must look as though she’s having a panic attack. Maybe she is.  

“Yes,” she breathes. She doesn’t have to clarify to which question she’s affirming, because his demeanor instantly lightens. She still feels dizzy.

Petyr surges forward only seconds after her answer, eyes dark and satisfied, taking her face in his hands and kissing her hard from across the table. The way Petyr kisses always leaves her breathless, unable to do anything but give as good as she gets. The way he holds her, touches her, is not like the stories that she so loved as a child. It is not soft nor sweet, but devouring. If she’s not careful, he will swallow her whole.

When they pull apart, Petyr runs his thumb over her swollen lips. When she leans into the touch, he smiles, plucking the ring from its box and sliding it onto her finger. He kisses her digits lightly, but his other hand doesn’t leave her cheek. “Good,” he tells her, like he’s always known what she would say, calling for the check in the same breath. “We should go home, don’t you think, my dear? To celebrate?” The waiter appears with their bill.

As he signs, leaving elaborate loops across the receipt, Sansa takes a moment to adjust. _This is good,_ she tells herself. _He’s admitting that he needs you, even if he won’t say it out loud. You’re necessary._ She repeats the last sentence in her mind a few times, gathering the papers back into the envelope. Her eyes linger on the passport. _He wants you safe._

By the time he looks up from the bill, she has sown herself back together. “You men always have only one thing on your mind,” she teases.

Petyr chuckles at her quip, looking both relieved and disappointed at her recovery from the stuttering mess she was only moments ago. He stands first, helping her from her seat. Wrapping an arm tightly around her waist, he leads her from the restaurant. They are quite the couple, she thinks; both men and women eye them jealously as they exit. If she has to give up the fleeting feeling of love for glamour and success and power, it seems a fair trade.

She glances over at her fiancé; he is not gorgeous, but he is handsome in his own right. He has striking eyes. He’s also really good in bed and knows it, though it makes him even more arrogant than he already is. Altogether, she could do much worse than Petyr Baelish. She has done worse, she reminds herself.

“I think you’ll find I have quite a lot of things on my mind, dearest,” he replies, arching an eyebrow as the valet brings the car around.

She groans. “You’re the worst,” she tells him, but she lets her eyes crinkle with humor so he knows that means it in jest. 

“Considering you just agreed to marry me, sweetling, I think you might be bluffing,” he says, kissing her nose in an affectionate gesture that borders on atypical. He must have wanted this more than she thought.

“Maybe I am,” she replies, enigmatic, leaning into him. Her head fits perfectly into the space between his neck and shoulder.

Maybe she is.

_-_

_the day of the wedding – sansa part two_

 

It only takes two minutes after they climb into her fiancé’s car for Sansa to break the heavy silence that blankets them. It’s killing her.

Perhaps anticipating this, Petyr has banished his driver and bodyguard to the second rental that he brought. Sansa wonders if he had also anticipated being alone with in her a more favorable capacity when flying to the North, and the thought makes her even more angry.

“I don’t suppose you think you should apologize,” she says. Her voice is as tight as his hands are on the wheel.

Petyr doesn’t dignify that with a response. She knows he won’t say that he’s sorry if it is a lie, not anymore, because he knows that she’ll see through it. “Of course,” he says instead, “you must be ashamed of me.”

She has been resolutely keeping her eyes on the road ahead, but at that she has to turn and look at him. “What does that even mean?”

Petyr, to her frustration, seems to have no qualms about keeping his eyes away from her. It is unusual for her to be watching him when he is not watching her; she would probably enjoy it in any other situation. His jaw clenches tightly before he speaks again. “You and your politician brother are the golden children of the Stark family. It meant nothing to your mother and father to hear that your rebellious sister and the bastard did wrong. If anything, it’s expected. Now you, my dear, you have the education and the job and the poise to do better, and instead you’re whoring yourself out to a middle-aged CFO who used to be in love with your mother.”

Sansa looks away then. He always hates it when she mentions his childhood crush on her mother, and she is not surprised to find that she feels the same when the shoe is on the other foot. There are moments when she can forget how brutally cruel her fiancé can be, but this is not one of them. “Don’t say that,” she bites out.

“Which part?” he taunts.

“All of it!” she exclaims, but this times she refuses to look over. “Don’t say that about Jon, or my mother… that was years ago, just get over it.” She twists the ring on her fourth finger. She is trying desperately to hold onto her anger but she is beginning to just feel empty. “And gods, Petyr, is that really how you see yourself?” He doesn’t reply. “Do you think,” she continues, gaining speed, “do you _really_ think I’d marry you if that was all you were?” 

She peeks up at him; he still refuses to look at her, but he finally speaks. “And here I thought only half an hour ago you were about to tell me you didn’t want to marry me,” he mocks. “Could it be that you just realized who I really am?” Beneath the antagonizing tone, he sounds almost downtrodden. Sansa refuses to agree with him out loud, but Petyr is much too perceptive for his own good.

She loves that he is chaotic and dangerous; she loves when he shows her that she belongs to him because the fact that he cares at all means he belongs to her too. But seeing him on her family’s territory had been more jarring than she cares to admit. What does it mean for them, that the man she intends to share her life with is one with which she cannot picture growing old?

“Petyr-” She tries, but now that he has decided to open his mouth, he will not close it. He does not stop, his words only growing more and more biting, but she refuses to hear any of it. “Petyr…   _goddammit Petyr, pull over._ ”

Her hand nearly reaches for the wheel to do it herself, but in this they are in agreement. The tires screech in protest as he pulls them onto a side road. He breaks so quickly that if Sansa had not been wearing a seatbelt she probably would have hit her head on the windshield. 

“What do you want from me, Sansa?” He asks, angry and desperate, finally looking at her. “I won’t give you up like this, I won’t, so _tell me what you want_.” He moves to take her head in his hands but she pushes him away.  
  
“I want my fiancé back! I am engaged to Petyr Baelish _. Littlefinger._ He is the chief financial officer of the largest company in King’s Landing. He runs the best clubs in town, and knows everyone’s deepest secrets,” she takes a deep breath. “He _murdered_ a man for his fiancé, and he’s about to help her do it again next week with no remorse. My fiancé is confident and in control and knows what I want. Who are _you_?”

Petyr just stares at her. “Your _fiancé_ ,” he says, “flew down here on a whim because someone was touching you that wasn’t _me_. Then you get angry at me for trying to control you and not listening to you? You tried to call off our engagement because of it. You want the man who will murder someone for you when it suits you, and the man who is kind and submissive and _apologizes_ when it suits you otherwise. But you can’t have both, sweetling, and I certainly won’t always be the man that you want. If you want my resources and my intellect and all that comes with it, you will have to take the rest of me as well.” Sansa gapes at him, trying not to give him the satisfaction of watching her jaw drop. She realizes he is barely paying attention to her shock, wrapping up in his own words. “And I don’t do things by halves, Sansa. You have to let me take the rest of you too.” Finished, his eyes finally focus on her with hesitant intensity. 

Sansa is thrown by the amount of information he has suddenly given her; she wants to search him for honesty but she is far too overwhelmed. She wonders if she is being unnecessarily harsh, or if this is all another one of Littlefinger’s games. “I don’t need you to be perfect, Petyr,” she says finally.

He raises an eyebrow. “Ah, but that’s what it sounds like, sweetling.”  

“I just want to be certain, I…” she trails off. She remembers how happy and complete Robb had looked leading his new wife back down the aisle. She thinks about her parents, happy after all these years. She knows she will never have that, but maybe just a fraction… “I don’t know you, I can’t accept all of you if I don’t know who _you_ are, Petyr. I mean, who are we without all of _this_?” Her gestures are aimless, but he is perceptive enough to know what she means. “Regardless of all that, I made a commitment to you. Why can’t you trust me with that? Why can’t that be enough?”  

“A commitment that can be easily broken, as you’ve just demonstrated.” He sighs, deep and long. She knows that he must think she is a dreamer and a naïve little girl who can’t make up her mind, but she doesn’t care. “You know more about my desires and my past than anyone on this planet. Hell, you know the details of your mother, of Lysa.” He nearly spits the name. “You know the people I’ve killed,, things I’ve done that would make your father run me through… Sansa, you know me far better than you think, and if you want to know more, just _ask_. You’ll find there is little that I keep from you.”

Sansa doubts that very strongly, but she stays silent.

Petyr does not plead, but if he did, she thinks it would look something like this.  “… but you won’t give me the same. I want all of you, Sansa, but you don’t trust me. Not even a little. I don’t lie to you, not anymore. I haven’t for a long time, waiting for the day when I can look into your eyes and no longer see fear.”

Sansa stares at him in disbelief. “Petyr, you know so much about me that it’s borderline alarming.”

“Because I researched everything about you to ensure your affection,” Petyr says, heat in his voice, looking only moments from throwing his arms into the air. _Because you stalked me_ , Sansa replaces in her head, but this is not news to her. Petyr has always been aggressive in his pursuit of her; he has never tried to hide that. “Not because you deigned to tell me. You rarely even come to me for help, not unless it’s for business.” He stops for a minute, shifting in his seat. “When I woke you up from a nightmare last week,” he begins, looking as lost as she has ever seen him, “you reached for the knife on your nightstand, and not me.”

Sansa wants to scoff, but his revelations are too captivating. “What, and you want me to reach for you?” she asks instead, disbelieving. She remembers that night; she remembers thinking the distress in his expression was from being woken up by her screams at two in the morning. From his words, it was instead because she had stopped him from holding her. It seems trivial, but she knows there must be something bigger for which he is reaching.

“ _Yes!_ ” They are both breathing hard now, and when he reaches to hold her shoulders, she doesn’t stop him. “I want you to tell me your hopes, dreams, and fears. I want to talk to you about every thought that runs through your mind. I want to win the game and take everything your enemies hold dear, only for you. I want you to come to me for _everything_.” There it is, she thinks. “It’s not me that is holding us back, Sansa; why do you think I proposed to you?”

There is a moment of silence, and she realizes it was not rhetorical; he genuinely wants to know. “Because it was the best move for you,” she replies truthfully, “and Littlefinger never makes a move that doesn’t benefit him.”

His eyes are fiery, molten, and his voice is more tense than she has ever heard it. Still, somehow, he sounds defeated. Almost fractured, and it is here that she realizes that he _is_ being honest. He holds her arms in a vice-like grip, pulling her closer and closer until her face is mere inches from his. “I asked you to be my wife because I can no longer picture myself at the end of all this without you by my side.”

It is as if he has left a vacuum of air between them, and Sansa takes a mental step back to think, her mind reeling. Whenever Petyr speaks to her, she has always characterized him as either Petyr or Littlefinger. One is the man, the other is the game player. One cares about her, and the other cares only for what she can give him.

Looking at him now, she realizes that she has always been wrong. When he is Petyr, he still lies and manipulates. When he plays the game, he does it with her in mind. It is the version of him that exists right now, this broken mixture of the two, that just wants to have her, both for himself and the game, that is truly Petyr Baelish. Her Petyr, who will pretend to care about her family, her friends, and everything she cares about, but only for her. Who will betray and kill and fuck over anyone and everyone who isn’t her. Who would manipulate her into marrying him by killing the two people she hates the most, but still, would kill two men and countless others in the future for her. Who, she suspects, got her out of King’s Landing before she killed herself.

Who is facing her now, searching her face to try to see her thoughts before she thinks them, who cannot decide how to brace himself for her reaction to his honesty.

In his own, twisted way, he loves her, she thinks, and this thought alone decides her. The rest they can work through together.

Her hands come up to cup his jaw, and he sighs, but still his dark eyes don’t leave hers. She will have to give him more than a wordless answer.

“I am Sansa Stark of the North, and I am a wolf, not a bird in a cage.” She smiles sadly. “I can’t be taken, and I will not be taken ever again. You taught me that.” She pauses, taking in the lines of his face and the grey in his hair. It usually makes him look distinguished, but right now he just looks tired. “But,” she says, and his eyes shine with something like hope, “I will give myself to you, as much as I can. And though I’d love to say having you in return would be enough, it’s not. I want a relationship, an equal one, but I also want the world, Petyr. I have been through hell, and I intend to put them all through the same. And, you,” she hesitates, “ _my love…_ are my future, good or bad. I want you to be standing next to me when I make them pay.”

Petyr’s grin is slow but wide, like a serpent. His hands release their grip on her arms and move up to frame her face instead. “Ah, my manipulative, ambitious, soon-to-be wife. You will have all that you desire; I swear to you.” He leans forward to kiss her, but she stops him.

“I’m still angry,” she reminds him, her hands on his chest, but she cannot help the small circles her thumb makes on the fabric of his dress shirt. “And we still need to talk about _us_. I refuse to marry someone who I don’t know, however much you think I do.”  

Petyr nearly growls, but there is a warmth in him at her words. “I have been without you for nearly a week,” he tells her, voice low and hoarse, and the warmth turns to heat, fingers weaving into her hair to stop her from pulling away. “You agreed to be mine, sweetling. We’ll talk all you want, but _later_. You cannot deny me any longer.”

If she had even half a mind to argue with that, it disappears once he pulls her to him. Petyr kisses her over the center console for only a few seconds before he becomes frustrated with the awkward angle, reaching down with his right hand to unbuckle her seatbelt. Before she even registers the sound, he has pulled her into his lap. He kisses her triumphantly, as if he has figured out all of her, how to use her, and at this point he probably has. She matches him in hunger, in loathe to fall behind.

She adjusts to her new position quickly; this is in no way the first time they have done this in a car. She is pushing his suit jacket off his shoulders when they finally break apart, but they don’t stay that way for long. He pulls on her hair to gain access to her neck, trailing kisses and bites down to the hollow of her throat as she catches her breath. She rolls her hips against his, and she would smirk at the sounds coming from him if they weren’t also coming from her.

Petyr waits until she stills, eyes hooded and dark as he unzips her dress, one hand pressed against the small of her back. When he finishes, he takes her head in his hands once more, tilting it so that her forehead meets his. “You are _mine_ , Sansa; everything else is immaterial,” he says, panting. Her name comes out so raspy that she makes a mental note to talk to him about his smoking habit simply because the appeal of that tone leaves her utterly boneless. He pushes up against her, and despite the fact they are both still mostly clothed, her eyes nearly roll back in her head. “Never threaten to leave me again.”

Sansa lets him give her these ultimatums. She knows he will not truly stop her if she wants to leave, and if he does, her entire family will come for him. If the demands make him feel better, safer, then all the better for her. She tries not to think about the flare of heat that drives through her when he calls her his.

 _I need him,_ she realizes, and she truly does. She needs his resources, and she’s pretty sure that he is the only man who can ever really understand her. She doesn’t know what comes after, but thoughts of after are not really a luxury they can afford right now anyway. Petyr knows her, and she’s beginning to know how to move him. Her family will simply have to deal with her future husband until she is done with the game.

She refuses to consider the idea that she will never be done.

For now, she will make this man hers. She meets his eyes, pressing her right hand over his on her cheek. If he wants to be certain that she trusts him, if she wants him to lose himself in her, she’s going to have to play her last card.

“I love you,” she promises him, deadly serious. “I won’t leave you.”

Petyr lets out a sound that is reminiscent of a wounded animal, pulling her mouth to his before wrapping his arms around her so tightly that, if he was a stronger man, she would have been unable to breathe. He kisses her with his eyes closed, but she keeps hers open, watching several tears catch in his eyelashes. They do not fall. Neither of them will ever bring it up again, but it is her long-awaited proof of his weakness for her. It is enough, for now.

She closes her eyes, then. There is no more talking.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> poor petyr - no one's ever told him that they love him :/ (except probably Lysa but that's gross) 
> 
> hope you guys enjoyed! there will be one more chapter after this.
> 
> thoughts?


	4. IV

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> aah you guys sorry it took so long! I promised I'd post before the season premiere though so I guess I made it. 
> 
> Hope you guys enjoy the last chapter!

_twenty-six days after_

Sansa walks at a slow pace into the coffee shop, eyes immediately finding her brother and sister. She hangs back, ordering a hot tea. The redheaded barista now looks at her with something like pity, but Sansa just smiles back before fixing her cup up with a splash of milk and too much sugar.

When she approaches the table, Arya barely wastes a second looking at her before she speaks: “So, the creep over your own family?”

Sansa drops, boneless, into her seat, rubbing her temples. “I can’t hear this from you too, Arya,” she says, but it is not the broken, apologetic Sansa that they were privy to at the wedding. This composed Sansa has a backbone that is obvious in the straightness of her spine and the stubborn spark in her eyes.

Arya crosses her arms, refusing to let her oldest sister how proud she is. She wonders if this is how Sansa felt when Arya decided to reenroll in part time classes. “Yeah, well, you’re going to be hearing it for at least the next decade from everyone, so I figured I’d prepare you.”

“Arya,” Jon warns. Arya only rolls her eyes. Jon wonders where the girl who so fiercely defended her sister is, but he keeps quiet for now.

“Was Robb very angry?” Sansa asks, her voice suspiciously even.

Jon nods. Robb had nearly flipped every table in the house, and Sansa deserves to know what she’s up against. “Talisa was on your side, though,” he ventures. Sansa looks up, her eyes wide. “I think she knows a little about there being no control over who you fall in love with. Bran was kind of silent the whole time; you know he’s the least hot-headed of any of us. And if it makes you feel any better, we left after Arya yelled at everyone for a while, and I don’t think we’ve going to be welcome back until Dad cools down.”

If his sisters are surprised by the length of his speech, they do not comment. “And who knows how long that’s going to take,” Arya snarks. They all shudder; their father is usually the kind and relatively relaxed parent, but when he is angry, the entire country will know it.  

Sansa sighs. “I’m really sorry,” she says after a long pause, eyes tracing the swirls in the foam of her tea. “I was selfish when I asked you both to cover for me.”

“We covered for each other,” Jon points out, attempting to distribute some of the blame.

Sansa refuses to let him, giving him a long look. “Yeah, but we all know it was my secret that was the worst, and you guys agreed anyway. So thank you for that, and for whatever you said that night Arya.” She smiles then, and it is genuine for the first time since she had joined them. “Even though it probably wasn’t very complimentary of my fiancé,” she adds knowingly.

“Let’s be honest, the bastard deserved it,” Arya says, but she is smiling too. Jon tries not to roll his eyes; he will never understand the relationship between his sisters.

“You’re not wrong,” Sansa agrees wryly.

Jon sits up a little, staring at his sister. There is something in her voice that is different when she speaks of her situation with Petyr; something regretful, perhaps, but also admiring and strong. “What’s going on, Sansa?”

Sansa meets his eyes, and he wonders how much Baelish has changed her if her own brother cannot recognize her. “Mom and Dad aren’t going to forgive me, not for a long time at least. And they are never going to forgive Petyr, especially Mom. And I… I can’t leave him.”

“Can’t-” Arya begins.

“Won’t,” she says firmly, and there is nothing left in Jon to question her.

Sansa reaches into her bag and pulls out two thick envelopes. She hands one to each of her siblings, and Jon inspects the heavy, expensive paper. “Wedding invitation?” He asks carefully.

The strength in Sansa’s expression only grows. The envelope crinkles as Jon opens it; Arya has already ripped open hers. “No, we are planning on a very private ceremony for that; I promise I will give you a heads up later,” she begins. “This is an invitation to… well, Petyr’s been calling it a coronation, if you want to be pretentious about it.”

Jon scans the text, eyes widening. “Sansa, what-”

“Cersei Lannister and her father and eldest brother had an unfortunate accident last night,” Sansa interrupts, her eyes glinting in a way that Jon recognizes from her significant other. “She has named me heir to her half of the company. Myrcella is heir to the other half, which Tyrion is fighting to maintain for her as she is too young to claim it herself. I have named Petyr CEO.” She enunciates each word slowly, and the pride in her voice bleeds through.

Arya and Jon are struck dumb. “Cersei Lannister _hates_ Starks,” Arya manages.

“So she does… or did,” Sansa replies. “In any case, it’s over. You are both welcome to come.” She turns to Jon. “Regardless of your current job, Petyr and I would enjoy hearing your thoughts from your time in the military. It’s time that you step forward, now that we finally have the chance to change things.”

Arya snorts. “God, Sansa, you own a huge company now, and that’s great or whatever, but you don’t run the country.”

Jon ignores her, studying Sansa carefully. “Okay,” he says eventually, to Arya’s surprise. “I’ll think about it, Sansa, but in the meantime you need to be very careful. You’re part of the whole mess now.”

“The fuck?”

Arya goes unnoticed again. Sansa nods to her brother, standing. “I know,” she tells him seriously, leaning over to give both of them a hug.

“You know,” Jon replies, kissing her hair as he squeezes her tightly. “I actually think you do.”

When she hugs Arya, Sansa laughs at the indignant expression on her sister’s face. “Tell me what’s going on,” she demands, refusing to hug back.

“Oh Arya, you’ll figure it out,” Sansa says gently, but there is a hint of her annoying big sister tone which actually soothes Arya instead of irritating her. Petyr hasn’t changed who Sansa is in her heart, not really.

Sansa leaves with a wave, and Arya and Jon watch as a sleek black car pulls up to the curb to pick her up. It is so out of place in this neighborhood that people on the sidewalk stop and stare for a moment before continuing on their way.

Arya shoves the invitation in her purse before standing. “I’ll figure out what she’s involved with,” she promises Jon.

Jon laughs. “Oh, I know what she’s involved with, and you won’t be able to help her, not really. But she might be able to help the country. And I bet Petyr’s going to make sure it doesn’t kill her like the rest.”

“Jon!”

There is a long silence, and Arya just stares at her brother until he concedes. “Everything,” Jon says, staring out the door where the car had just disappeared. “She’s gone all in, and you know what? I think she might be able to win.”

 

-

_seventy-four days after_

 

The announcement of the marriage between Sansa Stark and Petyr Baelish comes two days before the candidate that they have decided to back announces that she is running for Prime Minister. Petyr has his doubts about Daenerys Targaryen, but Sansa likes her and Daenerys likes Sansa. They are both the youngest players in a game that is not easy to play, but they are backed by, in Petyr’s not so humble opinion, the oldest and best of Westeros. When the two women meet to discuss strategy, he makes a point to maintain eye contact with Varys across the room. There is an unspoken promise of mutually assured destruction if anything happens to either girl, and between the two of them Daenerys and Sansa are easily the two most protected people in the country.   
Petyr hopes that Daenerys will work out. She is a good influence on Sansa; a person with whom she can discuss “girl stuff” with besides her sister, who Petyr is half convinced is not a girl. The Targaryen is not an easily controlled force, but Petyr thinks that it will not be that hard to move things into place behind the scenes. It helps that the people love her.

It will be such a blessing to get rid of Stannis Baratheon that Petyr is almost willing to make any other person work.

The morning that their official announcement appears in the paper, Sansa receives a call from her father. Petyr and she are eating a late breakfast when her phone rings. When Sansa sees the caller ID, she seizes the phone so quickly that Petyr barely registers the movement, like she is terrified that somehow the phone will only ring once. Her husband watches her with wary eyes as she answers it.

“Hi Dad,” Sansa says, her words heavy.

Petyr leans close so he can listen as well. Sansa narrows her eyes at him, but she does not pull away.

“ _Hello Sansa… I saw the paper this morning.”_

Sansa looks over at Petyr. “This isn’t going to be another lecture, right Dad?” There is silence on the other end. “Because I’m sorry that I disappointed you, but this isn’t going away.”

Her father sighs on the other line. “ _I know, and I can’t give my blessing, Sansa, not yet. But your mom and I miss you, and we’re coming into the city next weekend. Will you meet us for lunch?”_

Sansa stays quiet, her eyes wide like she is in shock. Petyr carefully reaches around her, rubbing her back gently. “Of-of course, Dad. But I don’t want to talk about my marriage, okay?” Her voice is thick and faltering.

It is obvious that Ned hears it too. _“Okay, Sansa.”_ His voice is wavering as well. “ _I’ll call you next week, okay?”_

“Okay,” Sansa agrees, on the verge of tears.

“ _Okay,_ ” Ned repeats, and if Petyr was not worried about the potential ramifications of this whole conversation he would have made a quip about broken records. _“And Sansa?”_ There is a long and palpable pause. _“You’re doing good work with that company of yours.”_

Petyr hears the unspoken ‘I’m proud of you’ in the words, and from the hitch in Sansa’s throat, she hears it too.

“Thanks, Dad. I’ll talk to you later,” Sansa tells the phone before hanging up. Her head immediately searches out Petyr’s shoulder, and he makes sure that he is there to catch her.

Petyr decides to speak first; this phone call has thrown them both off guard. It should have taken a lot longer for Ned and Cat to come to terms with everything, and despite the obvious choice that Sansa had made months ago, Petyr is still afraid that they will manage to change her mind.

“That was sooner than expected,” he says softly. Sansa swipes at the tears in her eyes, making to sit up. Petyr refuses to let her, gently pulling her back down. She does not look at him. “Are you okay?” He asks, knowing the answer.

“No,” she says, and he is surprised that she is so honest. “They’re going to push me to leave you, but I won’t, Petyr. I want you to know that.” She sighs, and he brings up a hand to card through her hair. After a moment, she dislodges his hand, looking up at him with bright eyes. He is immediately lost in them; her blue eyes are easily his favorite of her features, even before her soft crimson hair. “It’s just going to be hard,” she continues, staring up at him.

He smirks then. “At least I wasn’t invited, hm?”

She laughs, and he lets the sound wash over him. He would kill for this woman without an ounce of hesitation, he thinks. From the look in her eyes, she knows it, too. She kisses him softly, long and lingering. After a minute or two, he reaches to hold her tighter, but she shakes him off and stands.

“I’ve got to go,” she tells him, fishing for her lipstick in her bag. She reapplies it quickly, taking her phone and her purse and running her nails through the short hair on the nape of his neck. He shudders, and she watches his eyes darken with a smirk.

Maybe he has rubbed off on her a little too much.

Later, as he watches her run a board meeting like she was born rule a kingdom, he thinks not. She is absolutely perfect, and she is his. There is nothing that Ned or Catelyn Stark can do about it.

The next week, he sees her off to her family lunch with a smile on his face.

 

_-_

_one hundred and thirty-six days after_

 

Petyr pulls up the car to a half-empty parking lot, cutting the engine. It is very rare that either of them get to drive themselves anywhere, and Sansa can tell that he is relishing the opportunity.

The building behind them is an old theatre, but not the type that Sansa is used to in their new life. They are expected to attend the opera and the symphony at least once a month to “promote the arts”, as the PR department calls it. They were invited to the Dorne Film Festival, an invitation Sansa happily accepted on both of their behalves to Petyr’s chagrin. However, rarely does Sansa see a movie in the theatre anymore.

Petyr has said nothing since she realized their location, and so Sansa breaks the silence. “Why are we here, Petyr? I thought we were beyond doing deals in shady parking lots,” she jokes.

Petyr just grins, getting out of the car to open her door for her. As soon as she is out of the car, he takes her hand, threading her arm through his. “This is part of my efforts to show you that we can be a normal couple.”

“A normal couple that runs the largest finance company in the world,” she deadpans, falling into step with him.

“Just so,” he says, smirking.

“Okay, I’ll bite,” Sansa says as Petyr produces his credit card at the ticket stand. The boy manning the stand stares at her for a minute, eyes going wide when he recognizes the couple before him. Good, Sansa thinks. They have been trying to reach a younger audience, and she knows Daenerys needs the younger vote. They have been doing interview after interview together for this very purpose. Sansa is half-glad, half-anxious her face is beginning to be recognized. She already misses the old routines that privacy had afforded her. Sansa still gives the boy a small, secretive smile before looking at her husband, who is looking at her with an indulgent smirk. He knows exactly what she is doing. “What are we seeing?”

“ _Paranormal Activity 4_ ,” he tells her and the boy, who rushes to print their tickets.

Sansa closes her eyes. “Oh my God.” What kind of movie theatre is this, she wants to ask. “How many of those movies have even been made?” Too many, Sansa answers herself. She would have preferred to stay home and force her husband to watch _My Fair Lady_ for the hundredth time.

He ignores her outburst, taking their tickets and escorting her into the theatre. “What do you want, my dear? Popcorn or candy? A soda?”

In a fit of pique, Sansa makes him buy it all. Then she makes him carry it into the theatre.

There is a surprisingly large amount of people in the small, dark space, and Sansa carefully tracks the flash of disappointment in her husband’s eyes. Nevertheless, he chooses a seat in the back, pushing up the armrest and wrapping an arm around her shoulders as soon as she sits next to him.

They settle in just as the previews begin. Twenty unnecessary minutes later, the movie starts.

They watch in silence for nearly half an hour before Sansa can’t take it anymore. She leans closer to Petyr to whisper to him, rolling her eyes when he takes it as an invitation to pull her impossibly closer.

“This movie is terrible,” she whispers, ignoring the sharp look from an older woman sitting a couple of seats down from them.

Petyr only hums, rubbing his thumb over her upper arm. Sansa quirks an eyebrow at him, but in the end, it is the uncontrollable twitch of his lip into his usual smirk that gives him away.

Sansa gasps quietly, attempting to pull away. Petyr refuses to let her. “You planned this!” She yell-whispers, and the woman who has nothing better to do than watch a horror movie alone on a Saturday night actually shushes her.

“Planned what?” Petyr finally whispers in reply. The circles that his thumb makes have gradually become big enough that he is just barely brushing the side of her breast.

“You purposefully brought us to a bad film so that you could come onto me in a _movie theatre_ ,” she accuses.

Petyr tilts his head, considering. “Can you still call it ‘coming onto’ when we’re already married?”

“Stop avoiding the point,” she hisses.

Petyr sighs, sharp eyes finally moving from the screen to meet hers. “It is quite a… normal couple activity to do, is it not? Making out in a movie theatre?”

“If we were teenagers!”

Petyr eyes her up and down before meeting her gaze, obviously amused. “Although those years are far behind me, you are more or less a teenager.”

At this, the woman who Sansa is sure has been eavesdropping on their entire conversation audibly squeaks. The couple in front of them turn and glare at her. Good riddance, Sansa thinks viciously.

“You’re not helping your case,” she informs Petyr. “I’m pretty sure that woman is about to go and report you to child services.”

“Let her,” he says dismissively, nudging her cheek with his nose. The scent of mint overwhelms her, and despite the length of time they have been together, Sansa knows she will never understand her husband’s strange ability to always smell so good. “We have better things to do.”

“Do we?” She hums, turning to face him. Their faces are only inches from each other, but when he leans in, she ducks under him to grab a handful of popcorn.

“Minx,” he growls as she slowly eats each kernel, one by one, wide-eyed and innocent.

“Just an hour ago it was ‘my love’,” she points out, smirking.

He pulls her close. “My love,” he rumbles, his voice low and full of heat.

Sansa groans. “You play dirty,” she teases.

“Isn’t that why you married me?”

Sansa pretends to think. “Why _did_ I marry you?”

He only smiles, leaning in to kiss the words out of her mouth. The question is obviously rhetorical and her tone renders a response useless, but he replies regardless. “I’m giving you the world,” he reminds her, punctuating each word with a kiss.

“You are,” she says, and to the music of the onscreen screams and cries, she kisses him until she can no longer breathe, knowing that Petyr would give her the air in his lungs if she but asked.

He loves her, after all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> aand there it is! if you liked it, please review and tell me whether my next story should be another modern au or if you'd prefer it take place in canon westeros :) 
> 
> also special thanks to @dethronejane for reminding me to post this; I hope you like it!


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